The Best American Mystery Stories 2011 by Otto Penzler

Author:Otto Penzler [Penzler, Otto]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

Getting out of the stairwell was a breeze. Security figured they had me dead to rights, locked up in the south hall, and since the hallway contained no cameras, they had no idea I'd gotten out. And sure, they were probably watching all the building's exits, but that was only a problem if I headed down. So instead I headed up.

The upper floors of Pendleton's were nothing but hotel rooms. By the time I got there, most of them were empty, on account of some folks downstairs had started shooting at each other and the building was being evacuated. Found a room abandoned midclean-ing by the housekeepers and helped myself to a clean pillowcase to dress my wound and a change of clothes, swapping my silly cowboy getup for a pair of khakis and a crisp blue oxford. Even with the ad hoc bandages, the oxford was a hair too big for me, and a little loose about the neck, so I left the collar undone and threw on my unwitting benefactor's charcoal sport coat. Then it was a matter of peeling off the fake mustache and walking out the front door looking confused and frightened like the rest of the good people with the misfortune to be caught up in this sordid mess.

My phone clocked Springfield to Morgantown at sixteen hours. I figured I could make it in eleven. Stole an Audi from one of the casino's satellite lots, kept the needle pinned at eighty-five the whole way. Even chance they'd try to pull me over, I knew. Even chance I didn't care. They could chase my ass the whole damn way. All that mattered now was Evie. All that mattered was I kept her safe. And leading a parade of cops to her front door was as good a way as any to do it.

But they didn't. Didn't try to pull me over. Didn't chase my ass at all. And so I wound up on Evie's front porch alone.

The Syndicate hadn't beaten me here--that much I knew. If they had, they would have made a show of it--trashing the place, causing a scene, maybe leaving me a grisly souvenir. A finger, or perhaps an ear. But all looked normal, and quiet, and dark.

Still, they'd be here soon enough. And I had to be ready for them when they did.

My head was throbbing. My stomach churned. A sheen of cold, acrid sweat covered every trembling inch of me, and the gunshot in my side itched and burned. Moving hurt. Hell, standing hurt.

And still I kept on pounding on that door.

"Evie!" I shouted, my voice hoarse from exertion, and oddly tinny and distant to my own ears. Loss of blood. Lack of sleep. But I'd had worse. Least, that's what I told myself. "God damn it, Evie--open up!"

Did I mention it was late? Well, it was. Pushing five A.M. So late I guess you'd have to call it early.

If I were Evie and had some nutjob banging on my door at five A.

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